


Plastic Hurts I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11333319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Plastic Hurts I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Plastic Hurts by LadyFox

Slashx: 9 August 1998  
ArchiveX: 16 August 1998

* * *

Plastic Hurts  
by LadyFox  


Plastic hurts.

That's something I've never really noticed before, the way an organic polymerized compound can wound.

The dull ache in my back that began at about six o' clock has escalated into a very real pain, thanks to this unforgiving plastic chair. I've been sitting in it so long that my body's molded to it's shape, every movement a painful reminder that three hours in a chair is a bad idea.

What time is it? Eight o' clock. I should have left hours ago. Why the hell am I still here?

Okay, stupid question. I know the reason - it's because of *her*. All she did was ask - one phonecall and I discarded my plans for a solitary meal of day-old Chinese food in front of the television in favor of an emergency fabric analysis. And three hours of waiting.

Only for her.

I check my watch for the umpteenth time and wonder what's keeping her. Wonder if she's coming.

The empty lab mocks me, echoing every noise I make, reinforcing my solitude. Why do I do this? Go ahead Pendrell, fall at her feet every time she shoots a glance your way, stay up all night just so she can have those reports. Wait for her, just keep on waiting for her. I am such a sap. The joke of the department, the insignificant lab boy running after a Special Agent. It's ridiculous.

But painfully true.

I can't stop my eyes from drifting to the clock. Can't stop my mind ticking over uselessly: Maybe she isn't coming. Maybe something came up. Maybe... maybe... But then she would have called. Suddenly paranoid, I glance at the broodingly silent phone, snatching up the receiver just to check for a dial tone.

It chirps in my ear and I gently place the phone down. And I know she isn't coming. I wish I could be angry, or put out, or fed up. I wish I could slam the phone down or at least be annoyed. But I'm not, I'm just strangely calm -empty. I know she uses me. I know I don't mean anything to her. I know I'm just a pawn to her. I acknowledge this to myself and to the empty lab. I acknowledge this, but I know that if she asks me to help her out again tomorrow I will. I guess I really am a sap.

Reaching for my coat, I slink out the door. Blinded by my own numb misery I don't even notice I'm not alone until I slam none-too-gently into something large and immovable.

"What the-" Recognition hits, and I can see it's... "Mulder?" Confusion splinters my brain. What the hell is *he* doing here?

"Agent Pendrell." Cool unruffled Mulder. Always so in control, despite any questionable beliefs. He is everything I wish I were. Mulder would never skulk around some lab for three hours to do someone a favor. I regard him suspiciously. I don't know whether to hate him or idolize him.

Mulder's hand flicks upward, brandishing a plastic bag containing scraps of fabric.

"Materials analysis," He says by way of explanation. "Sorry about the late hour - Scully called you, right?" All brisk efficiency he strides into the lab, leaving me grasping at the remains of my mind for some understanding of this situation.

Where is Scully?

Suddenly it dawns... she never said she was coming. She must have sent Mulder, and here I was thinking...

Sap.

It echoes through my mind tauntingly. I am a sap.

"Agent Pendrell?" He's calling me. In that "wake-up-you-inferior-little-lab-boy voice". No, that's not fair, I can blame him for what he is. It isn't his fault he's... handsome? Suave? Confident? No, that's not it. Sure I'm jealous of all that, but I can't hate Mulder just because he's (go on, say it Daniel) Scully's partner. That lucky SOB.

"Sorry Mulder, I was expecting-"

"Agent Scully?" He prompts, a knowing look plastered smugly on his face.

"Uh... yeah." The words taste bitter in my mouth, I feel like a kid sprung with a girlie magazine.

And there's the smirk. The corner of his generous mouth lifts into that sly "I know your secret" look, and I'm sure he knows. Hell, I bet they both know. I bet they laugh about it when I'm not around, in her office - his office -*their* office. Inwardly, I'm scowling. Lucky bastard.

I struggle for something coherent to say, failing miserably. The silence stretches between us for long moments, and I'm sure I'm the only one uncomfortable with it. He's so self-assured it would take more than a prolonged silence to unnerve him. Again, I curse at him in my head, feeling some strange hybrid envy that hovers between hatred and hero-worship.

What I wouldn't give to have him - I mean, *be* him, I speedily correct, directing my thoughts out of the danger zone. Don't go there Daniel, or at least, not now. Save that one for the fantasies back in the drenched darkness of your semi-comfortable apartment... or better yet, never go there again. I push the thought aside briskly, tamping down the flailing ember of desire. See, that's better, Mother would be proud.

I realize I've let the silence stretch way too long and still failing words, I mutely snatch the bag from him, muttering Scully's name inwardly like a mantra as I head for my trusty microscope.

Mulder seems to accept my unwitting silence, stretching out his long limbs and leaning back against a workbench - settling in. Great, he's going to hang around. I wonder how well I can function knowing he's here, watching me. I start laying out the fabric, preparing a specimen.

"From where on the shirt was this taken?" I ask stiffly. Good. I internally congratulate myself. Crime scene details - we have Conversation.

"The sleeve." He answers coolly. God, he's so relaxed. He has no idea the affect he has on people. Usually I can hide my reaction to him. In the bustling activity of the crowded lab, distracted by a case, it's easy enough. But tonight it's different, I feel off-guard, exposed. Raw. He continues to talk but I don't quite absorb the meaning of his words, suddenly and inexplicably fascinated by how green his eyes look in this light.

He finishes speaking and catches me staring at him. I quickly avert my eyes and fumble with the microscope. God, I'm such a klutz. I surreptitiously poke my finger with the sharp corner of a glass slide, thinking that maybe pain will clear my head. Then I feel him sidling up behind me to see the microscope better. No such luck there. I'm still as aware of his presence as ever. Perhaps even more.

//Scully!// I inwardly scream, giving myself a mental kick up the ass. Girls, not guys. Women, not men. Just a gentle reminder.

I swallow shallowly as I lean down to the eyepiece, seeing the overblown cords threaded into silk.

"Well, it's silk." I say inanely, "But you knew that much."

Bright Daniel, really bright. He's sure to think you're a genius now.

I nervously embrace the microscope and throw out some other details. "Looks like blood, and saliva... and semen." I almost choke on that last comment, inwardly congratulating myself when my words come out only mildly strangled.

"A regular buffet." He responds dryly. "Can you I.D. all that?"

"It will take some time, but I should be able to." I glance back up at him, hoping my comments came out relaxed, or at least casual. His corresponding gaze gives no indication, so I guess I did all right. I allow myself one more brief moment to drink in his gorgeous face, then turn back to the microscope.

I can feel his gaze burning into me as I bend down to the eyepiece. At least, I think it's his eyes, maybe it's just wishing on my part. Just in case, I make an effort not to move too much. Briefly I flick a glance up from the microscope to see his reflection in the window in front of me and my suspicions are frighteningly confirmed. His eyes are glued to my ass. I can barely breathe. I don't want to move for fear he'll look, or worse, he'll stop looking. //Oh no, not now...// Mortification sets in as the heat from his gaze seems to spread from my rear around to my groin. And I thank heaven I'm wearing a lab coat. A long lab coat.

Should I make a move? Should I ignore him? I know I can't possibly do either, so I freeze, trapped. I feel, rather than see him inch closer to me, leaning in close, suffocatingly close to look over my shoulder. I can smell him now, no aftershave, any foreign scent long since worn off, just that musky male odor of someone who lives in their clothes. I can't help but turn my head a little, wanting to bury my face in his neck and lose myself in that smell.

"Pendrell..." His voice is low, but it seems too loud in the silence of the room. My eyes fly to his face, and I am immediately aware of how close together we are standing, how we seem to be breathing the same air. His expression is thoughtful, as if he's just stumbled across something particularly intriguing, when he finally speaks, it's almost an afterthought, "What's your first name?"

It takes a moment for the question to register, and when it does it catches me completely off guard, my answer coming automatically.

"Daniel." I croak out, almost silently. And for a moment his head sways closer, as if he didn't quite hear. I'm tempted to repeat myself, but not sure if that's why he's leaning closer... part of me hoping that's all he wants, the rest of me wishing he'll want more than my name.

I hesitate, waiting for him to say something, do something... anything. I don't know if we stand here for moments or minutes, the only indication of time passing is the rhythm of his breathing... gradually speeding up. Anticipation quivers through me and I realize with something likened to fear that I want him to kiss me. I need him to.

I'm sure he senses this need, I can see his emotions warring in his eyes. He's fighting it almost as hard as I am. But we're both getting nowhere. Finally, with a little noise of surrender, his head leans to mine. Our mouths meet and his lips are firm on mine, his tongue darting in, tasting me, letting me taste him. It's not a gentle kiss, it's a forceful, hungry exploration of my mouth. It's hot, wet and far too brief.

He draws away before I am ready for him to, and I almost lose my balance without the solid feel of him against me. Suddenly lightheaded, I want cling to him for support, but I'm afraid to, so I turn away, leaning my hands on the workbench, letting my head fall forward, trying to understand the blur of thoughts whirling through my mind. Only one thought is comprehensible, and it keeps resurfacing to torment me.

Why did he stop?

I can only think of one reason and I don't like it. But I'm sure it's the right one.

He doesn't want me.

My head suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. I want to run, to bury my face in my hands, but I know I can't. I try to formulate an apology in my head, an excuse, something to make him leave quickly and not come back. Leave me alone with my humiliation and my fabric samples.

I almost have the courage to speak my prepared response, when I feel something warm on my shoulder. Mulder's hand.

"Daniel?" His voice is gentle against my ear, his body now close again, so close I feel it's heat through my clothes. Unthinking, I turn my head to look at him. He regards me with eyes that are dark with desire and I am suddenly aware that I've been mistaken. Badly mistaken. My heart flips with joy and fear, I lean into his touch, not wanting to lose him now.

"Mulder, I..." His hand is at my neck, fingers stroking that sensitive hollow behind my ear, robbing me of the words I'd intended to say.

"Yes?" He poses the question innocently, a wicked gleam in his eye. We're on new ground now, consent has been given on both sides and I wonder if he's as surprised as I am. Unsure where to go from here, my eyes search his gorgeous face. His lower lip is curled under slightly into that sexy pout he does so well. His lip is wet and shiny, and I have an overwhelming urge to suck on it. So I do. I pull his face toward me and boldly draw his lip between mine, sucking gently, a thrill of adrenaline racing up my spine.

A low sound that sounds suspiciously like a whimper escapes his lips, brushing my upper lip as it leaves his mouth. I've surprised him. I like that. Forcefully, he takes control of the kiss, his arms wrapping around me to sandwich our bodies together as his tongue plunges into my mouth. He's taking over now, and it's my turn to whimper. His teeth nip at my mouth, drawing moan after moan from me, making me press my body harder into his, my lab coat doing nothing to hide my erection now, but I don't care, I want him to feel it, just as I feel his pressing insistently into my stomach. We kiss, frenzied and furious, making out frantically like two teenagers with seven minutes in the closet. We need to touch, taste, feel everything - *now*.

A multitude of sensations assault my senses, the rough rasp of his stubbled cheek across my face, the silky strands of his hair tangled around my fingers. He intoxicates me, my pelvis grinds into his, my hand clamps down on the firm curve of his ass. For agonizing minutes there is only this pure panting desperation, we struggle against each other, needing to get closer, to get *inside* each other.

Suddenly he breaks the kiss, burying his head in the curve of my neck, his breath coming in heaving pants. I know what he's feeling, my head is swimming too. I rest my forehead on his shoulder, holding onto him tightly, clasping our bodies together as the room slowly stops spinning. Finally he draws back, our eyes meet. I feel slightly more in control of myself, though my heart still feels like it's about to burst from my chest. His eyes are dark, holding me, as he sinks his fingers into my hair pulling me close for a kiss -a lover's kiss - long and slow and tender. His other hand slides down my chest, undoing the buttons of my coat.

I know where this is leading now, and for a moment I resist, but when I feel his hands under my shirt, roaming my chest, I forget to be apprehensive and work on his tie. It's one of those garish ink-blot test numbers and I'm glad to rid him of it, tossing it aside to pull apart his shirt buttons. His chest is nicely muscled and firm, but then I knew it would be. Even his well-cut suits can't hide him completely. On his visits to my lab, when I would watch him - yes, I admit I watched him closely - the way the fabric of his shirt pulled across his chest as he moved, the way his pants tightened across his buttocks as he bent to look at a report. Oh yes, I knew he would look like this.

But I never dreamed he would feel this good. My hands slide beneath his shirt, over his chest. The smoothness of his skin is at odds with the rigidity of the flesh beneath. His breath hisses out from between clenched teeth. He is only just holding on and he is so beautiful when he's aroused.

His hands feather over my skin, but soon touching isn't enough and he grips my head between his hands he leans my head back to expose my neck. His lips nip at my throat, his tongue playing over my skin. Hot. Wet.

I know he must feel the reverberation of my moan on his lips.

"Mulder..." It is a plea, in a voice I don't recognise as my own. His hands clamp onto me and heave me upward, seating me on the workbench. He proceeds to devour my neck with warm lips and tongue, his reply murmured against my burning skin.

"What is it?"

I don't answer. I can't answer. Unfortunately, my silence is conspicuous. His fingers lock in my hair and he lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are probing, his expression suddenly concerned. "Are you all right with this?" His voice is low and intimate. I must look startled. Some of my nervousness must be showing in my face, because he's put on the brakes now. I know if I answer "no" he will stop, no questions asked. He will leave, if that's what I say I want.

I feel lightheaded, stunned without the warmth of his touch. I can't speak, but he wont continue without an answer. Doesn't he know? Can't he see how much I want him? I let my hand stray downward over his chest, down to rest over the hardness of his erection. Slowly, deliberately, I close my fingers around him, a caress. This is my answer.

I hear a moan of relief slip from his lips as he reclaims my mouth, more urgently this time. We kiss desperately, his tongue sliding intimately between my lips. Our movements become more frantic, his hands stroking down my back, gripping my buttocks. My own hands get busy too, I lock one in his hair and rub the other over the front of his pants. He groans against my mouth and pushes against my hand. I wrap my fingers around him, as best I can through his pants, squeezing gently, feeling him harden further, his hips rocking now, moving in counteraction to my hand.

He sucks on my tongue, it feels so erotic. I rub my body against him, my hand movements becoming more purposeful. I want his pants off, I want to feel him without the encumbrances of cloth and zipper. I grapple with his belt buckle, button, zip, pull his pants open and slip my hand into his boxer shorts. He is so hard to the touch, and so sensitive even the briefest brush of my fingers makes his hips buck in reaction. I am getting impossibly turned on just feeling him. He presses his beautiful cock into my hand, pushing his trousers further down his thighs to give me better access. I use my other hand to push them down until they pool at his feet.

Suddenly he captures my mouth with his, swallowing my shocked moan. His hands rake over my body, one sliding into my pants, making me gasp and shudder. My own hands still, trembling, on his body as his skilful fingers work on my hard flesh. I let out a frustrated moan because I am desperate to keep touching him but when he touches me I can't think, can't make my body function, my hands dead weights on the end of boneless arms, so lost in his touch.

"You seem intent on distracting me." I push the words from my lips.

He raises his eyes to me coyly, his grip on my cock slackening just slightly, his hand movements becoming agonisingly slow. "Do you want me to stop?"

There is a pause, and then the briefest squeeze of his hand rips a groan from my throat. I grit my teeth, and try to keep from thrashing violently.

"Was that a yes?" His voice is teasing, but low with danger and desire. Slow, circular strokes with the palm of his hand. I try to speak, but I can't push anything from my lips but sharp breaths.

"Yes? No?" His breath is hot against my skin, his damned skilful hands torturous in their pleasure. I can't take this... With an explosive moan, I smother his mouth with mine, stealing his sly playful words. When his lips lock on mine and our tongues entwine I know I've ended his hot little game. We're both too close now to tease anymore, consumed by a driving urgency that melts our bodies together.

His hands return to my cock, and mine slide back to his throbbing member, our movements echoing each other. When he begins to milk my shaft, I move with him, my own hands working over his cock, squeezing and pulling, feeling him harden and grow beneath my fingers with every stroke. I can't help the thrill of satisfaction I feel at seeing his body shudder at my touch. Oh, but I want him. Ripples of pleasure become pulsating waves and I can no longer control the frenzied thrust of my hips into his hands. He tears his mouth from mine, drawing frantic heaving breaths. I quicken my hand movements, briefly drawing one hand away to lick my palm, then rub the wetness over the head of his cock. This scores me a deep throaty groan and series of uncontrolled hip thrusts. I know he likes that.

His face is distorted with need - he's calling my name, and I've never heard it sound like this before, such passion, such desire. He is so close. Then I can't hear anything, see anything, only *feel* as the sensation overwhelms me. I'm bucking into his hands, his tight firm grip around me, perfect, exquisite. Faster and faster, each stroke, each... yes - oh god yes, that's right, don't stop - don't fucking stop now, Mulder-

I come so hard it almost blinds me, feeling his wetness strike my stomach as I do, his body shuddering against mine, and I know that what we've both just felt would have registered on the Richter scale. Mulder's body goes limp against me, hot and damp with sweat, a heavy but delicious weight on me. His head lolls to the side, and his dark eyes meet mine.

Sweat dots his upper lip, and I brush it away with the back of my hand, a casually intimate gesture. The scent of our desire is heavy in the air, the whole lab seeming to reek of sex. Mulder takes a long breath, slowly drawing his weight back to his feet as his breathing returns to normal. Then he swings around and boosts himself up to perch beside where I remain half-sprawled on the bench. He runs his hand through his hair and shoots a relaxed glance at me, looking for all the world as if it were a perfectly normal occurrence for him to be sitting in an FBI Sci-Crimes lab with his pants around his ankles. It's all so utterly comical I find that I can't keep the smile from breaking my face, soon I'm struggling so hard to keep from bursting into laughter I'm quite certain I'm going to strain something vital.

As if he can sense my impending laughter, he raises an eyebrow my way and all at once I am struck by his beauty. The color in his face is heightened, his hair is damp and dishevelled, and I want to commit him to memory this way. I never want to forget how he looks right now, satiated as a cat, bewitching as a fallen angel.

Somehow we recover, and manage to make ourselves decent, I watch sadly as he covers up that splendid body of his with a now-rumpled suit. I struggle to finish the fabric analysis, although every moment is agonising, after what we've done I'm finding it impossible to concentrate, especially with him being so close to me. Years of training and experience allow me to complete what I hope is a reasonable analysis, and as the computer spits out figures I take a moment to feast my eyes on him again. He's been strangely quiet as I've been working and I can't help wondering what's running through that attractive head of his. He collects the print-outs, briefly studies them and then stuffs them into a battered manila folder. It seems to take ages before he looks at me again.

"Pendrell," He hesitates... Oh God, I know what's coming. He regrets it. Thanks but no thanks buddy, let's just forget it, temporary insanity, I hope this doesn't affect our working relationship but I don't want-

"Are you free tomorrow night?" He cuts me off mid-thought and for a moment I choke on my own breath. A faint light of hope pierces through the dim clouds of my depression. "Because I'd like to go over these figures with you when I'm feeling a little more clear-headed."

Oh. He wants to talk work. The faint light falters and extinguishes. Damning myself for doing it, I drag my gaze from the floor to find his face. He won't meet my eyes, he's fidgeting with the papers, shifting from foot to foot and he seems only too eager to get the hell out of here. By now I'm feeling pretty much the same way, so I drag my sorry self out of the lab, muttering my reply only loud enough for him to hear, as I force my legs to carry me past him,

"Sure. Fine. Whatever." and a sad attempt at a casual grin.

He catches my arm before I get much further, and I turn to face him reluctantly, expecting him to tell me a time, or a place, or some boring bullshit detail like he'll call me. I'm not expecting him to kiss me, so I am astounded when he does. His mouth swoops down to mine and a moment is all it takes to push me from despair into pounding desire. My mouth melts to his and again I am lost in his taste, in the stroke of his tongue, his arms around me, too tight, but not tight enough. Reassurance comes with satisfaction and I am delirious with relief as he relinquishes my mouth. His breath is coming hard, and his hands are still clenched on my arms.

"Tomorrow." He says, and it is at once a promise and a question.

I nod my reply, then on a second thought I add, "Will Agent Scully be there?"

He seems taken aback, but answers. "No."

I can't help the smile that creeps across my face as I reply. "Good."

************************

Hope you liked it!

LadyFox  


 

* * *

 

28 Nov 98  
WARNING: Contains m/m sexual interaction in compromising places - if you don't like that you'd be better off beating yourself about the head with a large fire extinguisher than reading any further.  
RATING: Slash M/P  
SPOILERS: You're kidding, right?  
DISTRIBUTION: Archive/X, Socks Shoppe - hell *anywhere*, just let me know.  
SUMMARY: Pendrell makes a frightening discovery about fabric samples.  
OBLIGATORY DISCLAIMER: All things X-Files belong to the blonde surfer dude. I only borrowed them, they'll be returned only *slightly* used.  
FEEDBACK: Did you say feedback?? Gimme! 

* * *

Plastic Hurts II: Impressions  
By LadyFox

All day I've tried to ignore it, trying harder and harder to push the memory to the back of my mind, but it keeps stubbornly resurfacing. His image is imprinted on my brain, just like the marks on the backs of my legs from the edge of the workbench. Just like the red impression of his teeth on my neck. He left his mark on me yesterday, and he made one hell of an impression.

A glass slide slips through my numbed fingers and shatters on the floor. This is impossible. I can't think about work, every neurone in my brain is preoccupied with thinking about *him*. And it isn't helping matters that I'm expected to function as a lab tech within the confines of "the scene of the crime". Every object in the lab is a testimony - the tile on the floor where his coat fell, the spot on the workbench where we.... well... My face has flushed red so many times today I'm beginning to resemble a neon sign.

I can't bend to the microscope without feeling him sidling up behind me, imagining the press of his body flush against mine, his chest to my back... his groin to my ass... his heat... his hardness. My face is burning again. And it's not the only part of me that's getting hot.

"Tomorrow." He said, meaning tonight. I don't know if I can wait that long to see him again - *have* him again, but I guess I have no choice. No choice but to wait. To push Mulder to the back of my mind, try to ignore the heat in my pants and concentrate on the work at hand before I suffer immediate and unplanned unemployment.

With some resolve, I open a new file - my latest assignment. The usual stuff, tox reports, black and whites, paperwork... and something else. Something completely ordinary and run-of-the-mill to anyone else, but something that causes a horrifying epiphany for me, a completely unprecedented side effect of yesterday's activities, that is now proven medical fact.

Fabric samples give me a hard on.

Oh *shit*.

I can feel myself coloring (again) - my face is burning, my ears are burning for chrissake - and my pants are suddenly way too tight. I shrink further into my lab coat (I never thought I'd ever be so dependent on a piece of clothing to protect my virtue) and try very hard not to panic.

*Think about something else*

I think about Mulder.

*Think about... nature.*

I think about Mulder in less clothing.

*Think about... politics.*

I think about him touching me.

*Think about... *

I think about him doing things to me. Incredible things. Delicious things. Sinful things.

*Oh.... shit*

I close my eyes in shame and I can feel his touch, his body pressed against mine, naked and smooth, his tongue in my mouth. Or his body bent over mine, the brush of his hair on my stomach, his hands on my ass, his mouth on my... oh... oh... oh *no* I have really done it now. Desire has reared its ugly head, both literally and figuratively. I truly have only one plan of action left: flight. 

Face flaming, I bolt from the lab, making a dash for the men's room. I'm in the end stall with my buckle half undone before reality kicks in.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Even in my teens when raging hard ons were commonplace and I had a license to masturbate I've never been reduced to taking matters into my own hands in a public toilet. And now here I am. What has he done to me?

I close my eyes and try to take a steadying breath, but all I see is Mulder. Desire pounds through my veins and I unzip. So hot now I'm nearing delirium, I can almost hear his voice. Wait a minute, I *am* hearing his voice. Just outside the stall door, calling to me in a theatrical whisper.

"Daniel?"

It takes a moment to convince myself I'm not hearing things, that my brain hasn't concocted his voice out of sheer longing. I unbolt the door and open it a crack, and there he is, in the flesh, charcoal suit, tacky green tie, eyes shining with mischief. And I'm struck catatonic, hand caught on the door handle, mouth stuck in mid-gape.

"You gonna let me in?"

I swallow once, twice and let the door squeak my reply as it opens. His eyes immediately fall to my unzipped fly, and the bulge now pressing quite insistently from behind it. I feel my skin heating up again, but not only with embarrassment this time. His generous lips curve into a sly smile. 

"No wonder you were in such a hurry to get here." He shoulders his way in and locks the door behind him.

Before I can breathe my back is flat against the wall and his lips are devouring mine, his tongue pushing insistently into my mouth and I'm drowning. I try not to moan, but I can't seem to help the noises coming from the back of my throat. I'm sandwiched between his body and the wall, hands roaming his back; I can feel his erection pressing to mine. We writhe like that, grinding our bodies together, feasting on each other until we have to come up for air.

His face is inches from mine, his breath hot on my face. We're both panting now, chests heaving against each other. He is so beautiful.

I kiss him, gently, on the lips, the cheek, the neck, feathering my lips down to the collar of his shirt, as far as I can reach. My hands slip to his waist and pull his shirt out of his pants, sliding my hands underneath to stroke the smooth bare skin of his back.

He's working on my pants now. Within seconds they slither down my thighs and I can feel the kiss of cool air on my legs. My fingers tighten on his shoulders as he lowers my underwear, releasing my cock. I can't help my sharp intake of breath, my head drops back, hitting the wall behind me but I don't feel pain, all feeling is centered on my groin. There, the lightest brush of his fingers burns.

He disentangles my hands from him and drops to his knees. I want to scream. I try to protest but I can't speak - he can't do this here! But he does. Heat engulfs me. Hot. Wet. My cock is in his mouth and now I can't think, can't reason, just *feel*.

He moves his head. My hands lock in his hair. He starts to work his mouth over me. I have to suppress a whimper. His mouth is pure heaven, I need the wall for support, my knees don't work anymore. I'm running so hot now I'm not going to last much longer. He knows. He speeds up. Sucking, licking, working me over with his tongue. I can only shut my yes and let him, trying not to moan too loudly, praying that no one has any reason to enter the bathroom anytime soon because there is no way I don't sound like someone on the receiving end of a superior blow job.

Oh god... how does he do that? His hands and mouth are working as one and my legs are giving way. I know I'm moaning way too loudly now but I'm past the point of being able to control myself, or even care. I grit my teeth, hips bucking. I open my eyes, looking down at him as he works on me, lips locked around my cock, just the image of him is enough to send me over the edge.

I'm coming in hard grunting thrusts and he's watching me. I'm biting my fist to hold back a scream, every muscle in my body tensed and shuddering. He swallows eagerly, hands clasped on my waist, holding me up as the spasms shake me, until my breathing slows down.

He stands up slowly and kisses me, slow and wet. I can taste myself on him, salty and bitter on the seductive slide of his tongue. My softening erection brushes his pants as he holds me. 

I take a moment to breathe. He pulls up my pants and I let him dress me. He fusses with my fly, straightens my shirt, realigns my lab coat. Then I brush my fingers down over the still firm bulge of his pants, letting my hand rest there until I can feel his heat through his clothes.

"What about you?" I whisper.

He smiles and feathers a kiss across my lips. "That was a freebie - I'll get mine tonight." 

"Oh, will you?" I retort, trying to sound coy. But I don't even convince myself. He knows he can have me whenever he wants, his smile says so. He finishes buckling my belt and turns to unlock the door. I slip my arms around his waist, pressing up behind him, both my hands falling to cover his still hard erection. I hear his breath rush out.

"Sure you want to wait that long?" I ask, innocently.

His hands fall away from the lock. His voice is rough and breathy.

"I could be persuaded..."

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